


We've Got Spirit, How 'Bout You?

by missmichellebelle



Series: Teen Spirit [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Cheerleader Ian, Cheerleaders, Established Relationship, Fight and Make-Up, Fluff, High School, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 08:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2302949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Ian can get Mickey to go to a football game, then this is <i>definitely</i> more than ridiculously good sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We've Got Spirit, How 'Bout You?

**Author's Note:**

> For [Sarah](http://goingtohogwartsinatardis.tumblr.com), because I love her, and she loves cheerleader!Ian.
> 
> Also I know I said I wasn't going to write sequels to anything until October at least (and even then, I said probably only mermaid and nanny).
> 
> I lied.
> 
> BUT IN MY DEFENSE I started this before I said that so.
> 
> Don't let the verse tag lull you into a calm sense of security that there will be more than this. I just wanted the original and this sequel to be connected.

Ian knows that Mickey has a thing for his uniform. Or, to be more accurate, has a thing for _Ian_ in his uniform.

It wasn’t some sort of vulnerability that Mickey had shared, either, but it wasn’t hard for Ian to guess. Mickey always wanted to see him before or after practice, or games, with the sort of urgency that didn’t leave time for Ian to do things like _change_. Sure, Mickey liked to make snide remarks about the colors, and Ian is pretty sure he’s heard every Irish slur under the sun, but the taunting doesn’t cover up the way Mickey looks at him when he wears it.

So Ian uses it to his advantage—wears it more than he usually would, makes up practices that he can “skip” just for the delicious way Mickey’s eyes rake over him in the gold and green. But he doesn’t bring it up.

It’s a game piece, something that Ian can use, and he’s playing a long, strategic game.

After that first football game, Mickey never attends another. He doesn’t like school, he doesn’t like football, and he doesn’t like school spirit.

“And yet you’re fucking a cheerleader,” Ian had mused mockingly, and Mickey had growled at him and the conversation had, ahem, abruptly ended. Ian still doesn’t know if what they’re doing is more than sex. He likes to _think_ it is, but it’s not exactly something they talk about. Mickey doesn’t really do the whole _talking about their feelings_ thing.

So that becomes Ian’s goal. His litmus test. If he can get Mickey to go to a football game, then this is _definitely_ more than ridiculously good sex.

And Ian has one particular game in mind.

“It’s the biggest game of the year,” Ian explains, failing horribly at their game of Halo because he’s too busy concentrating on their conversation. “For the players, obviously, but for us, too. Coach spends all year working on the routine, and works us super hard when we practice it, so it’s kind of a huge deal, you know?”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mickey hisses, glaring at the TV. “Are you playing for the other team? Because it fucking looks like it.” It’s not at all what Mickey means, but Ian laughs anyway, leaving him totally open to the grenade that’s tossed his way. He’s still laughing as the kill screen comes up, and Mickey sighs heavily as he realizes what he said. “Not a fucking euphemism, Gallagher. Now come the fuck on, we’re down two.”

Ian rolls his eyes, but spawns back in and _tries_ to concentrate.

“…so what do you think?” Ian hedges after a few minutes of quiet gameplay.

“About how much you’re sucking dick?” Mickey shoots him an incredulous look.

“Oh fuck you,” Ian mumbles. “No, about the homecoming game.”

“The what?”

And this is what Ian gets for trying to have a conversation with Mickey while they’re playing CTF.

“Nothing,” Ian mumbles, a little dejectedly, and manages to headshot one of the guys after Mickey, securing them another point.

“That’s what I’m fucking talking about.”

*

As soon as Ian sees Mandy at her locker the next day, he politely abandons the conversation circle he’s standing in and heads straight for her. He knows a lot of his “friends” don’t really get why he hangs out with her, but Ian likes how _real_ Mandy is. No fake smiles, no pretending to care about what’s going on with him, no catty remarks that are absolutely meant but laughed off as a joke. Mandy doesn’t do that shit, and if Ian decided to stop being a cheerleader for some reason, she’d probably be the only friend he had left. Even if their friendship had started on the foundation of her wanting to fuck him, but that’s really just a funny story now.

Ian slumps against the locker beside her, and she throws him an amused look as she finishes shoving books into her backpack.

“What’s crawled up your ass?” Mandy asks, and then her eyebrows scrunch together and she shoots him a look. “Actually, don’t answer that, I don’t want to know what freaky shit you and my brother get up to.”

It also helps that Mandy is the only one who _knows_ he’s gay—Ian’s pretty sure a lot of people have their suspicions (he’s a fucking _cheerleader_ after all), no one knows for sure and no one says anything.

“Well, actually—“

“What the fuck did I _just_ say?” Mandy has this wide-eyed, crazy person glare that has the luxury of making Ian shut up nearly immediately. “Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong or what?”

“Who said anything was wrong?” Ian asks, faking nonchalance, and Mandy rolls her eyes and sighs a long, suffering sigh. Sometimes the similarities between her and Mickey are offsetting.

“You have that look on your face,” Mandy replies as she snaps her locker shut. “Like someone just took your puppy and drove over it in front of you.” Ian’s eyes widen as he stares at her in horror, and she nods. “Yep, that one.”

“I—I don’t make that face,” Ian defends, falling into step with her as she starts walking down the hallway.

“Yeah you do.” Mandy glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “So nothing’s up? You don’t want to vent to me about anything or ask for advice?”

 _Fuck_. She knows him too well sometimes.

“…well.”

“Fucking knew it.”

“It’s about Mickey,” Ian hedges carefully, and Mandy’s nose wrinkles up. They don’t really talk about Ian’s _thing_ with Mickey, mostly because it really wasn’t supposed to happen more than once, and then it _did_ , and it kept happening, and Ian just spent a _lot_ of time at the Milkovich house. Mandy isn’t stupid, and she put two-and-two together (and it didn’t hurt that she sort of caught them nearly naked and making out). The fact that that’s how she found out Mickey was _gay_ is kind of a sore spot.

So it takes her nearly a minute of stone-cold, thoughtful silence, while she weighs being a fiercely loyal best friend against being a little sister with bruised trust, before she lets out a long, defeated breath. “What about him?” She asks flatly.

“I really want him to come to the homecoming game.” Ian just flat out says it, and Mandy actually stops in the middle of the hallway to stare at Ian.

“You want Mickey to go to a football game?” Mandy clarifies, and Ian frowns and nods. “My brother? That Mickey?” Ian gives her an annoyed look.

“It’s not like I know any other ones.”

“Ian, even if you were the King Midas of blow jobs, Mickey would never fucking go to one of those things.” Mandy is looking at him like he’s crazy.

“He went to that one,” Ian defends weakly.

“Yeah, because I fucking tricked him into it,” Mandy tells him. “But if you think he’ll go to the peppiest event of the year? Without being blackmailed in some capacity? You’re kidding yourself.” Mandy actually looks sad as she says it, and slings her arm around his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I would have warned you not to get involved with my shitty brother if I’d known it was a possibility.” There’s a bite to her tone, and Ian just gives her a soft, dejected smile.

“Yeah… You’re right.”

It was a silly idea, anyway.

*

“What?” Mickey asks in frustration after Ian spends half an hour watching him play Call of Duty (he doesn’t really feel like video games today). Ian glances at him in confusion.

“I didn’t say anything?” Ian furrows his eyebrows.

“No, but you’ve been fucking sighing like an emo kid since you got here.” Mickey’s actually paused the game to look at him. “The fuck is the matter with you, huh?”

Ian smiles tightly. “I’m fine.”

“Is this about that fucking house warming football shit?” Mickey looks beyond annoyed, and Ian can’t help but stare at him in surprise.

“The homecoming football game?” Ian’s pretty sure that’s what Mickey _means_ , but Ian hasn’t said anything about it since that one time—not to Mickey, at least. Mandy was right. It’s a pipe dream, at best. Ian would sooner be on that football field himself than Mickey would show up just to spectate.

“Yeah, whatever. Is that why you’ve been so mopey?”

“Wait, how do you even know about the game?” Ian asks, face twisted up. Did Mickey actually retain information from when Ian had tried to talk to him before?

“Mandy said some shit about it, how it was a big fucking deal to you or something.” Mickey says it so dismissively that Ian has to turn away from him to hide how much it hurts to hear. “That you wanted me to come.” And there’s so much amused disbelief in that statement that it turns Ian’s expression steely—he clenches his jaw and crosses his arms.

“I do.”

“Huh?”

“I do want you to come.” Ian turns to look at Mickey, keeping his face just on the angry side of neutral. “It is a big fucking deal to me, and I’ve worked my ass off, and I want you to come.”

“You’re fucking with me, right?” Mickey is grinning, but when it’s clear that Ian isn’t joking, the smile turns sour. “Why the fuck would I go to something like that?”

“Maybe because I’m there?” Ian suggests like it’s obvious—because isn’t it? Shouldn’t Mickey _want_ to go because Ian’s there? “Maybe because I want you to?”

“Why the fuck do I care if you want me to?” Mickey snarls. “The fuck do you think this is? We play video games and fuck and suddenly you think I owe you shit? I’m not your fucking faggy ass boyfriend.”

Ian’s resolve almost cracks, and he turns his face away and nods a few times, swallowing thickly, hands clenched against his knees.

“You’re right,” Ian finally says, once he’s sure that his voice won’t break. “That’s why I didn’t fucking say anything, because I knew you didn’t give a fuck. About the game, about me, about anything.” And Ian realizes he can’t be there anymore. He can’t be in Mickey’s space, surrounded by things that remind him of Mickey—fuck, he can’t be around Mickey _himself_.

“You seriously losing your shit over this? It’s a fucking _football_ game, Ian. Stop being such a little bitch about this.”

“It’s not just about the fucking game, Mick,” Ian says hollowly, and then grabs his jacket and leaves without another word.

“What-the-fuck-ever, princess!”

Ian doesn’t let himself cry until he’s at least two blocks away.

*

Homecoming is Ian’s favorite game of the year. Not only is there a pep rally the precedes it, but there’s a halftime show, and him and the squad work through blood, sweat, and tears to make it amazing. Ian likes the rigorous strain of getting those performances ready, though—the high standards they’re held to is one of his favorite things about _being_ a cheerleader. The hard work, the dedication, the physical exertion. Those were all the things he hadn’t anticipated when one of the girls he was friends with freshman year encouraged him to try out with her. “Just for fun!” she’d insisted.

And then Ian had made the team, and she had not. As hard as Ian had tried after the fact, their friendship never recovered from that particular rift.

He’s streaking gold and green color in his hair—temporary stuff that the girls on the team all insist he _has_ to use—and can’t help the excited bounce in his leg. Even if their team sucks ass and loses, it’s still going to be a great night. It doesn’t matter who’s there and who’s not there. Ian is going to have a fantastic time and he’s going to scream his lungs out and he’s going to hit every mark and stick every landing.

If he keeps telling himself that enough times, maybe it’ll be true.

Satisfied with his hair, he heads back into his room to make sure he’s got everything in his duffle, and is surprised to see someone he’s _not_ related to standing a few feet from his bed, looking around.

Mickey looks a little surprised when he turns around to see Ian there, as if he’s not the one standing in Ian’s bedroom. His eyes flick to Ian’s styled, colored hair, before he says, “Door was open.”

And Ian doesn’t even know what to say. He presses his lips together, closes the door firmly behind him, and walks past Mickey to his bed, where his bag is sitting, open and waiting.

“Didn’t know you knew where I lived,” Ian replies tersely, because Ian always goes to Mickey. Always. Mickey never comes to him.

“Pretty sure everyone in Chicago knows where the Gallagher house is,” Mickey jokes lamely, and Ian just gives a curt nod. He doesn’t have time for this right now. The game is in three hours, and he needs to be focused for it, and Mickey just… Messes with his head. If he wants to do this, _fine_ , but it needs to wait.

“Look, I actually need to be somewhere, so if you could just tell me why you’re here and we can get this over with, that’d be great.” Ian looks over at him with a cutting glance, and Mickey’s eyes dart away. He looks so out of place in Ian’s room, around Ian’s (and Carl’s, and Liam’s) things. Not like he couldn’t belong there, but more like he doesn’t _think_ he belongs there.

“…I’ll go.”

Mickey says it so quietly that Ian’s not sure if he heard right.

“What?”

Mickey makes a gesture with his hand, like Ian is supposed to know what he’s talking about, and adds, “If it means so fucking much to you that you’re going to throw some fucking fit about it, I’ll go.” There’s reluctance in his voice, and aggravation, but there’s also this strange vulnerability that Ian’s heard a few times before. Enough times that he tricked himself into thinking that this wasn’t just a fucking thing.

There’s a swell in his heart that tries to convince him he was right.

“Really?” Ian still can’t believe he’s hearing what he’s hearing.

“Don’t make me say it more than once, Gallagher,” Mickey huffs out in frustration, and Ian grins. It’s not a straight-out apology, but Ian’s pretty sure this is as close as Mickey gets. In fact, Ian is positive that what Mickey just did, is _doing_ , is a fucking rare occurrence that needs to be treasured… And possibly positively reinforced.

Ian grabs Mickey’s hand, startling him, and then leads him to the bed, pushing him into sitting, which of course Mickey looks _super_ on board with. Ian gets that—it’s been a week and a half since their fight, and Ian hasn’t been back to the Milkovich residence since, and Mickey sure as fuck didn’t seek him out (until today).

The way he looks positively _hungry_ for Ian just makes him think, _He didn’t fuck anyone else_.

As Ian straddles Mickey’s lap, he grabs two jars out of his bag, settling on Mickey’s thighs before he twists one open. Mickey watches him lustfully for a few seconds, onto the material Ian is scooping out on his finger is green and glittery.

“…what are you doing?” Mickey eyes the substance distrustfully.

“Getting you ready for the game,” Ian replies brightly, and then smears a thick green line of face paint over Mickey’s cheek.

“Oh _fuck_ no, I said I’d go, that doesn’t mean I’m going to drink the fucking punch.” Mickey twists underneath him, and Ian clenches his thighs around Mickey’s to hold him in place as he opens the gold paint.

“If you aren’t wearing face paint, you’re going to stand out,” Ian insists, frowning as Mickey twists his head around like a little kid being forced to eat pureed carrots, and Ian sighs as he tosses the closed containers back into his bag and uses his paint-free hand to grab Mickey’s chin. After that, it hardly takes a second to create a matching gold stripe on his opposite cheek. “All done. See? Didn’t hurt at all.”

“You’re a fucking dead man,” Mickey hisses at him, and Ian winds his arms around Mickey’s neck and tilts his head coquettishly to the side.

“You know, I can see why you’re so nuts for my uniform,” Ian muses, leaning closer to Mickey’s ear as he sputters and tries to negate the claim. “Seeing you in gold and green is kind of doing it for me,” Ian murmurs, ghosting his mouth over the shell of Mickey’s ear before dragging it down his neck. He makes it about halfway before Mickey pulls away to tug his shirt over his head, and Ian grins as he pushes Mickey back onto the bed before shucking off his own clothes.

The game isn’t for three hours, after all. They’ve got time.

*

(Mickey’s face paint absolutely needs a retouch before the game, but he doesn’t seem to have nearly as big of a problem with it this time.

Litmus test successful.)

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far and you still expect smut scenes from me, I commend you (I'm also very very very sorry).
> 
>  
> 
> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/post/97451962800/weve-got-spirit-how-bout-you)


End file.
